Page 47 of Dukes of Peril

I glance down at the ring on my finger. Meeting up with Saul without advance notice isn’t giving the best optics ever, but like everything else in this world, when do I get a choice? It comes with the territory. The position.

The having of a Duchess.

“Whatever,” I say, “let’s make it quick.”

He leads me back to the main athletic building—the administrative offices that back up to the stadium, Mercer Field, which everyone knows is named after Tristian Mercer’s family. Not for the first time, I wonder how much the Mercers know about their little golden boy’s exploits. Burning down his King’s office building. Programming explosives for the promise of pussy. Tristian’s racking up a lot of skeletons around here.

But regardless of the name on the stadium, Saul is the director of this place. Pretty cush job, if you ask me. Big paycheck, big power, eyes and ears everywhere. It’s a long way from our janky little West End boxing gym. People can say what they want about Daniel Payne, but at least he did his businessinSouth Side, not locked away in the middle of Forsyth proper with all the security campus neutrality brings.

The goon leads me to the elevator, and while he dutifully watches the door, I spend the whole ride up to the top floor openly staring at him. With each floor we pass, I can see the tension in his neck cranking up.

I jerk my chin. “What’s Saul paying a guy like you to bum around a college campus?” Guys like him–and me–aren’t exactly Forsyth material. This guy runs the book end of Saul’s empire. Probably chases down delinquent gambling addicts on the weekends.

The guy doesn’t answer, but I still see that tendon in his neck twitch.

I remain motionless, expressionless in that way I’ve been informed makes people uncomfortable. “Nice. It must be a lot if it buys your silence, too.”

Ah, there it is.

His eyes flick to me, narrowing. “Twenty-three.”

I whistle. “What’s that? Quarterly?” When the guy just stares back at me, I snort a laugh. “Shit, man, that’s annual? Are you part-time or something?”

He’s looking a little put out now, turning to glare at me. “I’m working my way up.”

“Okay,” I say, the doubt clear in my voice. “Daniel paid me three times that, plus benefits, the second he took me on.”

His eyebrows crash together. “Benefits? What benefits?”

“All the pussy you can eat,” I say, even though I never really indulged in it. The only girl in Daniel’s brothel I actually wanted was off-limits. When the elevator finally dings, I give him a slap on the shoulder. “Tough luck, chief.”

The doors open to an impressive reception area. An attractive woman at the desk barely looks up to say, “He’s waiting on you, Neon.”

Underpaid Goon–what kind of stupid-ass name is Neon–mutters, “Thanks, Michelle.”

I’ve been in a King’s domain before. Daniel’s office building before it burned down. The little room Killian now occupies at the Hideaway. The Baron’s crypt. But fuck. I’m not prepared for the grandeur of Saul’s office.

Saul is one of us. DKS. West End. A Duke, born to fight. You wouldn’t know it, though, taking one glance at this place. Sleek chrome and leather furniture outfits the room, while the walls and shelves are a tribute to the history of Forsyth sports. Photographs, plaques, and trophies celebrate the All-Americans, Heisman winners, and various other National Champions the school has pushed out over the years. For all his shortcomings, Saul excels at his job. Finding talent, molding it, harnessing it, promoting it. The players under the Forsyth U banner are just another version of the guns the Dukes sling for him.

Saul deals in weapons.

The furnishings and décor are overshadowed by the glass wall overlooking the massive stadium and expansive green field below. Saul stands next to it, looking down at the grounds crew as they touch up the paint in the endzone. For the first time, I think I finally understand who Saul Cartwright is and what it means to be King. A strange flicker beats in my chest. Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how big of a deal this guy is, which is probably intentional. But Saul’s just as loaded as the other Kings, running his guns and manipulating the gambling market, all while holding one of the most prestigious positions in Forsyth.

I’m nothing but a name and a trigger finger.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, eyes flicking to the goon. “Wait outside, Neon.”

“Good chat, Neon.” Flicking the goon a peace sign, I mosey along the length of a sleek credenza, inspecting odd trinkets that aren’t quite trophies, but still clearly meant to be awards. A brass tennis ball. A gilded shuttlecock. A silver letter opener in the shape of a miniature hockey stick. “Care to explain why I’m here and not in my literature class?”

“I’d love to,” he says, pulling a cigar from his jacket pocket, “but we’re waiting on someone else before we get started.” My eyes narrow, because if Sy and Remy are about to be hauled in here, then some serious shit must be going down.

Every cell of my body sings with alert.

But when the door swings open, it’s not Sy or Remy. It’s another one of those badly dressed goons, his hand gripping the bicep of my motherfucking Duchess.

The hand on her is enough to drastically shorten this fucker’s lifespan.

The tears streaking down her cheeks are enough to end it entirely.

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